


The Milk Run

by ShannonPhillips



Series: A Little Less Attitude and a Little More Altitude [2]
Category: Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: Action/Adventure, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-10
Updated: 2016-06-10
Packaged: 2018-07-14 05:11:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7154924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShannonPhillips/pseuds/ShannonPhillips
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's only been a few weeks into Hera and Kanan's partnership, and they've already had enough close calls. Hera thinks they deserve an easy mission for once.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Milk Run

**Author's Note:**

> Content warning for mention of trafficking. Thank you to [gondalsqueen](http://archiveofourown.org/users/gondalsqueen/pseuds/gondalsqueen) for taking a look at this story as it progressed, and helping me solve some thorny plot & character motivation issues!

Hera’s good at reading rooms. Situations. People. As a teenaged Twi’lek girl traveling alone in some of the galaxy’s seediest corners, she’s protected herself not just by her quick aim and solid left hook, but by being savvy enough to extract herself from dangerous situations before she’s forced to resort to fist or blaster. She can read a lot about someone from a quick introduction.

She can’t read Kanan Jarrus. Or rather— _what_ she reads doesn’t make sense, it doesn’t fit together. She’s missing some vital piece to the whole transmission: the key that would decode him.

He’s a drifter who seems remarkably quick to settle in. No previous ties, no past that he cares to discuss: and yet he’s not anywhere near as emotionally remote as that history would suggest. On the contrary, he’s treated her with empathy and kindness. All the sleazy pick-up lines he threw at her on Gorse, the smarmy, aggressive flirtation: that’s vanished. His eyes are still intent on her in every conversation, but they no longer wander.

Instead, and in a number of ways, he’s offered her something that feels like true and lasting friendship. The first time he cooked a meal for her she was astonished and delighted. When he did it again the next day, and the next, and the next, she was staggered. She told him it was a luxury she did not expect or require: he just shrugged. “I’d be cooking for myself anyway. It’s no extra trouble to make some for you.”

Acts of loyalty large and small. When Kanan sees danger, his instinct is to intercept it. To put himself between Hera and the source of any harm. It’s not a show of chivalry or a gesture meant to impress her—in fact it seems to embarrass him, each time she catches him doing it. And already, in the few weeks that they’ve been traveling together, they’ve put their lives in each other’s hands more than once.

She trusts him to a startling extent, for someone she’s known such a short time. For someone she doesn’t truly know at all.

Another contradiction: he’s a libertine with the habits of an ascetic. For all his talk of drinking and womanizing, she hasn’t ever seen him get sloppy. Everything he owns fits into a single bag, and he accepted a berth aboard the _Ghost_ without even asking about pay. He’s clearly not driven by a lust for material things.

What does drive him: she can’t tell. He’s not an idealist or a crusader. It’s only with reluctance that he can be convinced to strike blows against Imperial domination. He does seem to feel a need to intervene on behalf of people who are suffering, just as Hera does herself, but his compassion is only for individuals. He doesn’t care about systems of oppression and injustice. Or at least, he claims not to care.

He’s a flexible and creative thinker—able to formulate strategies on the fly, and swiftly adjust his tactics in response to changing situations—but he’s also shortsighted. Kanan doesn’t like talking about the future any more than he’s willing to talk about the past. Hera has no idea what his long-term goals might be; she increasingly suspects that he has none.

And the last contradiction: despite the swaggering, smart-aleck demeanor that he can shrug off and on like he does his coat, Kanan’s incredibly hard on himself. He’ll boast of his own competence—and his skills are undeniably extensive—but when offered praise or gratitude he routinely deflects it. He never seems to believe he deserves it. Hera doesn’t think he realizes how often he makes comments to indicate that he’s fallen short of his own standards.

His brashness, his cockiness: that’s an act. In unguarded moments he’s more often grim and scowling, and his harshness is always self-directed. She can only guess at what kind of regrets or past failures he’s dwelling on, and she knows better than to ask. When he’s in his blackest moods she just finds some excuse to busy herself with something quiet, in the common room, so that he can have company if he wants it. Usually he’ll join her there; he’ll sit in silence while she offers trivial commentary about something inconsequential, or even just hums to herself over her work. She doesn’t know if it really helps, but it seems better than the nights he disappears into his quarters with a bottle of bottom-shelf brandy.

She thought she’d found the key to Kanan when she discovered his hidden Jedi abilities. And that does explain some of his facets—the courage, the competence, the disinterest in money or luxuries—but not the whole. She still doesn’t understand how it is that this rootless wanderer fits into the _Ghost_ so easily and so well. She doesn’t understand how he can care about people, and want to help them, and at the same time turn a blind eye to the Empire that oppresses them.

And most of all, she doesn’t understand why there’s nobody else in his life. The nature of Hera’s mission means there’s few she can trust, but recruiting allies was always one of her priorities: and at least she had Chopper. Kanan, despite his kindness and his loyalty, has no one. It doesn’t make sense.

It seems that he’s found a home here. It feels as if their friendship is something that will endure. But maybe she’s wrong—maybe in another month, he’ll move on. Maybe that’s just what he does.

Or maybe, Hera thinks to herself with vexation, she’s spending entirely too much time on the problem of Kanan Jarrus. She has more pressing issues to solve. For one, they’re broke and the Ghost is running low on supplies. They need a job: one that comes with a hefty number of credits. They can save the galaxy another week. Today, they need to get paid.

She’s been sending out feelers, telling her friends to tell their friends that the _Ghost_ is available. For what, she doesn’t have to say. And shouldn’t: transmissions are monitored. But the kinds of jobs that pay well are not usually done for nice people.

They could take someone somewhere that they’re not supposed to be, or rescue them from somewhere that they _are_ supposed to be. They could move illegal cargo, or just take something legal while bypassing the usual tariffs and duty fees. And now that she has Kanan to back her up, Hera’s been dropping a few hints that she might be available for more…hands-on work. Especially if involves liberating wealth or materiel from Imperial targets.

Scrolling through her datapad, Hera sifts through the responses that have come in, reading between the lines to gauge how distasteful the clients are likely to be. And how rich. She glances at one message—reads it again, more carefully—and then laughs out loud. Then she begins composing her reply.

She’s already programmed in the new course when Kanan joins her in the cockpit. He probably felt the jump to hyperspace. “Where are we headed?” he asks, dropping into the co-pilot’s chair.

“Raydonia,” Hera says with satisfaction. “To pick up a passenger. It’s a very straightforward trip—the clients simply prefer that she travel incognito. And her people have the credits to make it worth our while.” 

Kanan stretches and yawns. “That’s good. We could use an easy job after your last few escapades.”

“Oh, this one will be a milk run.” Hera keeps her voice neutral, but she can’t quite stop the corners of her lips from twitching. Kanan’s gaze sharpens.

“Raydonia’s a strange place to find the kind of woman who has ‘people,’” he says. “Frontier world, isn’t it? There’s like one colony. What is she, princess of Mudtown?”

“Her breeding is impeccable,” Hera says, although the effort to repress her laughter is nearly choking her now.

“Riiiiiiight,” Kanan drawls. “Have your fun, Captain Hera.” He pushes to his feet again. “Call me when we get there. I’m looking forward to meeting the celebrity of Raydonia.”

***

In a clearing surrounded by mud-brick hovels, a bantha stamps. To be fair, she is a rather pretty bantha, and has been carefully groomed. Kanan groans the instant he sees her.

“That’s the client? That’s the client, isn’t it.”

Hera doesn’t slow down. “Not…exactly,” she laughs. “The bantha herself isn’t paying us. Her people are.”

“Is she even gonna fit in the cargo hold?”

“I got her measurements,” Hera says. “She’ll fit.”

Kanan groans again, but more softly this time, as they’ve reached the clearing. There are several rancher-looking types surrounding the bantha, and several more militia-looking types holding very large and very obvious blaster rifles. All humans or near-humans. Hera doesn’t break stride and doesn’t do more than glance at the guards. She walks directly up to a man holding the chain that connects to the bantha’s (shiny) collar and offers her hand. “I’m Hera, captain of the _Ghost_. We’re here to take Elsewise Sky’s-the-Limit to Taanab.” Behind her, she can just barely hear Kanan repeating the bantha’s name in a disbelieving whisper.

“ _Elsewise Sky’s-the-Limit_?”

The rancher shakes her hand. He makes no effort to surrender the leash. “You been approached by any strange folk seeking berths on your ship since you took our contract?” he demands. “Anyone asked you to carry unknown packages or freight?”

“I have not,” Hera assures him. “And no.” He still looks nervous, so she looks him in the eyes and speaks gently. “I understand that Elsewise is special. We’ll keep her safe, I promise.”

“Elsie ain’t just pedigreed and prizewinning,” the rancher says, a little plaintively. As if he’s begging her to understand. “Her milk’s almost twice as rich in ghionate-12 as a breed-standard bantha cow’s. She’s gonna be the template for the new agricultural program at Tanaab. Her and her calves will revolutionize the entire blue milk industry.” His voice drops to a whisper. “And believe you me, there are people who do not want to see that happen.”

One of the other ranchers—a woman—speaks up. “That’s why we couldn’t trust any normal ag transport. They’ve got people everywhere. There’ve been five separate attempts to kidnap Elsie.”

“We’ll be at Tanaab before they have any idea that Elsewise is gone,” Hera says reassuringly. “I won’t use the main trade lanes. There will be no checkpoints, no official record of her movements until we hand her over to her new keepers.”

“We could send some security with you,” the rancher offers. Hera lets herself look, then, at the men with guns. They look back at her stonily.

“It’s up to you,” she says. “But their passage will cost extra, especially if you want return fares.”

The ranchers exchange glances. “The deal will stand as-is,” the man says.

“Good,” Hera says, and glances pointedly at the leash. “You said she’s docile?”

“Elsie has the sweetest temperament you’ve ever known,” he says wistfully, making no motion to hand over the chain. “Gentler and kinder than any sentient. Sometimes I wonder if—” The bantha stamps again, and the man breaks off, turning to bury his face in her long  shaggy coat. His shoulders shake.

The woman steps in. “We’ll send you with a pallet of lornflowers. Elsie’s favorite. Also, she’s just been milked and groomed and won’t need any special attention on the journey. Her handlers on Tanaab will be able to take care of all her needs.”

“ _Will she ring a bell when she needs the fresher_?” Kanan mutters, still in that low whisper that Hera fervently hopes nobody else can hear. “ _Or am I cleaning up the bantha crap from our cargo bay_?”

Hera clears her throat loudly and talks over him. “It will be an honor to spend the journey with such a special creature,” she says, and holds out her hand. At some length, the rancher looks up. He’s looking at a point over her shoulder and blinking rapidly, but he thrusts the chain into her hand.

The bantha turns her heavy head, apparently registering Hera for the first time now that she’s holding the chain. “It’s nice to meet you, Elsie,” Hera croons. “We’re taking a trip. Ready to go?” There’s no spark of interest or recognition in the beast’s small, fur-shrouded eyes, but when Hera steps backward, the bantha takes a thudding step to follow.

“ _Yee haw_ ,” Kanan whispers, and Hera finally looks over her shoulder to give him a stern glance. He smirks back at her, utterly unrepentant. Hera takes another step and then another, and Elsewise lumbers into a steady walk.

There’s actually no trouble getting the bantha into the _Ghost_. The difficulty comes in getting anything else in after her—specifically Kanan, or the pallet of vegetable delicacies that the ranchers insist on sending with her. Kanan just lounges in the _Ghost_ ’s entryway, watching Hera dance around a bantha with very obvious amusement. She has to admit it’s fair.

In the end they have to guide Elsewise backwards down the ramp, reload everything and everyone that’s making the trip ahead of her, and then coax her back into the cargo bay. That’s not hard: as soon as the lornflowers are brought aboard, Elsie’s snuffling and pawing after them. She settles in to chew, her heavy head lowering and lifting again with great mouthfuls of purple blossoms, as the airlock hisses shut behind her.

“Don’t worry,” Hera sighs then, once they’re alone. “I’ll clean up after her.”

Kanan raises a shoulder and lets it drop. “Enh, I’ve had worse jobs. I’ll help.”

She gives him a genuinely appreciative smile, and his craggy face softens in response. “Thanks,” she says. “Keep an eye on our illustrious passenger, all right? I’ll go plot a course.”

In the cockpit she confirms what she already knew: the quickest and most obvious route between Raydonia and Tanaab would be to make the Corellian Run, switching over to the Perlemian Trade Route at Brentaal. But she’d promised the clients she’d stay off the main hyperlanes, and they’d definitely get scanned at Brentaal.

A straight run between the two planets isn’t possible either. That route goes through vast swaths of uncharted space: much too hazardous.

“Chopper,” Hera says, “help me work this out. It looks like these sectors have been charted between here and Hypori. Could we make a jump from there to Nal Hutta?”

Chopper plugs into the _Ghost_ without complaint, although he begins emitting a series of error messages and general invective shortly thereafter, mostly aimed at the ship’s nav computer. Chopper holds a longstanding grudge against the _Ghost_ ’s onboard computer, claiming that it frequently and deliberately attempts to obstruct his work. Hera has no idea whether this is actually true, because despite Chopper’s stated dislike for the ship’s computer, he’s optimized its interface systems to such an extent that now only an astromech could fully understand its output.

 _Safe route == negative_ , Chopper returns finally. _Abrion sector, subsection of == impenetrable cosmic dust cloud_.

She hadn’t really expected it to be that easy. “How far would we have to detour to get around it? What if we used Rishi as a waypoint?”

Chopper analyzes that route, and finally returns a rather begrudging confirmation: _Route == Raydonia to Hypori to Rishi to Nal Hutta. Realspace realignment == required after each jump._

“I know, it’s a lot of hassle for you,” Hera says sympathetically. “But from there we can use some of the Cartel smuggling lanes. You ought to be able to find a pretty straight shot to Onderon?” Any world in the Japrael sector would do, but Onderon lies on a web of well-trafficked hyperroutes, and they will certainly be able to jump from there to Tanaab.

 _CaptainHeraSyndulla == dangerously naïve_ , Chopper returns, adding a harsh grinding sound that she can only interpret as a gesture of annoyance. _Cartel data == outdated. Stellar nursery in Teraab sector == regularly erases hyperlanes._

Hera sighs. “Yes, I know, that’s what makes them _smuggling_ lanes. We’ll drop into realspace, scan the nebulae, and update our maps on the fly.” She raises her voice to talk over Chopper’s immediate and rather rudely phrased objections: “And I _know_ you can do that because the C1 series has never been surpassed for fuzzy topology analysis, and even for a C1 _you_ are capable of astonishingly intuitive data resolution.”

Chopper suspends his original commentary, and there’s a beat of silence in the cockpit, before he finally returns: _CaptainHeraSyndulla == fooling nobody. Flattery == useless organic concept._ But the jarring grinding of gears has disappeared from his audio output.

“When we get paid at Tanaab,” Hera promises, “I will pick up a kiloliter of premium-grade Kuati oil.” Bribery is not a concept that Chopper finds useless.

And indeed: _Route == Raydonia to Hypori to Rishi to Nal Hutta to realspace waypoint to Onderon to Tanaab_ , Chopper confirms. A moment later, the pilot’s console shows the coordinates for Hypori.

“ _Thank_ you,” Hera sighs, and takes the _Ghost_ out of orbit and into hyperspace.

The Corellian Run would have gotten them to Tanaab in a little less than a day. The route she worked out with Chopper will take twice as long, and that’s assuming the scanning goes quickly. She flicks on the com to the cargo bay. “Kanan? We’re in hyperspace now. How’s Elsie?”

His voice is drily amused. “She’s a bantha. She’s doing bantha things. Mostly chewing.”

“We’re going to be making a series of jumps. I’d like to catch a cat nap--do you mind checking in on her? You don’t have to stay down there the whole time.”

“Will do.”

Hera stands up and stretches, then leaves the cockpit to Chopper. The journey will be arduous in that it’s going to require two days of reporting back to the cockpit every few hours and grabbing naps when she can. But ultimately, it’ll be a hefty payout for little risk.

Or that’s what she thinks until day two.

Hera’s in the cargo bay when Chopper sounds the alarm. They’d made it to Nal Hutta without incident, then dropped out of hyperspace in the Teraab sector to update their charts before flying the nebulae. Hera got the scans started, told Kanan to grab some sleep, and then went to look in on Elsie.

The celebrated bantha is doing absolutely nothing at all and may in fact be asleep—do banthas sleep on their feet? She doesn’t even react to Chopper’s squawks blaring through the cargo bay. But Hera certainly does.

_Unidentified starships dropped out of hyperspace == 3. Location == surrounding VCX-100Ghost and closing fast._

Hera’s already racing back to the cockpit as she shouts: “ _Three_ ships? You’re sure they’re ships?” That was stupid. Nothing else could drop out of hyperspace; nothing else would have them surrounded. She doesn’t wait for an answer. “Chopper, start evasive—”

The ship lurches beneath her feet. “Tell me that was you!” Hera shouts into the com. She’s stopped before the door to Kanan’s quarters, banging on it rapidly with the heel of her hand.

 _Statement == false_ , Chopper beeps over the com. _VCX-100Ghost == caught in tractor beam._

“Tractor beam! Kanan, _wake u_ —”

The hatch to his quarters slides open. He’s only half dressed—barefoot, shirtless, and wearing soft-draping loose pants instead of his usual clothes. She takes in the sight without particularly thinking much of it, though she’s surprised, in a distant way, by the short, fine hair on his body. It covers most of his chest but then tapers down to a narrow strip of fur that skims over the muscles of his stomach and disappears beneath the band of his pants. He has his blaster in his hands. “I’m awake,” he says. “What’s happening?”

The truth of it hits her as she says the words. “We’re about to be boarded. Some kind of pirate fleet.”

He glances back over his shoulder. Looking toward his bunk. She has no idea what he imagines could be useful there—he just woke up, he’s probably still groggy. “Come on,” she says, grabbing his elbow. “You take this corner, I’ll take the other. Maybe we can choke them off here.”

She knows it’s a lie even as they settle into position on opposite sides of the passageway, facing the airlock, blasters out. _Three ships_. That’s overwhelming numbers. They can’t possibly repel a determined boarding party.

“Are they really here for the bantha?” Kanan asks.

“I don’t know,” Hera says tightly. “They couldn’t have known we’d be here, unless—”

Unless there was a tracking device slipped aboard. Kanan completes her thought: “The lornflowers.”

“ _Blast_ ,” Hera hisses.

There’s a thud against the airlock. Chopper’s alert is entirely unnecessary: _VCX-100Ghost external security == failing._

“Can we just give it to them?” Kanan says suddenly. “I know we’d lose the payout, but…”

But a bantha’s not worth dying for. “I probably would, if they asked,” Hera admits. “They haven’t offered any chance for surrender.” She swallows. “I think they know they can take anything they want.”

“We could make for the Phantom,” Kanan suggests, his voice grim.

Even the suggestion makes her angry. _I’m not abandoning my ship._ And anyway, that’s not a real escape route: “No hyperdrive,” she reminds him. “We’d be like a crippled blurrg for the boar-wolves.”

Kanan glances back in the direction of his quarters again, and even makes a motion as if to stand. Then there’s another bang from the airlock, and a hiss of atmospheres equilibrating. Kanan shifts, recentering, and hefts his blaster in both hands. “Chopper!” he calls. “Hide if you can! And Hera…” He draws a deep breath. “Make sure they see you.”

Her focus is all on the airlock, but she spares him a brief, disbelieving glance. “What?”

His face is cold, angry. “They have to _see_ you,” he repeats.

She doesn’t like where he’s going with this, but before she can object, the airlock whooshes open. She begins firing immediately, as does Kanan. Beyond the hatch there’s a number of people, and a great deal of yelling as Hera finds her target, and then the next. She ducks back into cover as the pirates return fire.

She hears the sound of something hissing. Metal bouncing against metal, clanging and rolling. They’ve thrown some sort of gas grenade into the Ghost: it’s streaming blue smoke from each end, quickly choking the air with haze. Kanan mutters a curse, then rolls into the center of the passageway, reaching for it. But as soon as he’s out of cover the pirates target him. Hera sees him take a shot to the arm and flinch back.

“Kanan!” she cries. She leans out from behind her corner to give him some covering fire. It’s hard to see through the blue smoke but the boarders look like Rodians. Kanan is hugging his wounded arm to his chest and coughing in deep, hacking spasms, but he reaches again for the gas canister and this time manages to fling it back at the pirates. Then he collapses.

Hera draws breath to call his name again, but coughs instead, and then again. Her vision is swimming. Through the blue smoke the pirates are advancing: they’re all wearing gas masks.

Hera steps into the passageway, standing over Kanan’s fallen form. She fires three rapid shots, but she’s coughing so hard that they all go wild. She can’t draw breath; her knees buckle under her. She goes down heavily, managing to land in a crouch with hand braced against the deck. Out of the smoke, a masked Rodian steps forward and emotionlessly lifts his blaster to her head. Blackness is creeping around the edges of her vision. Her hands are empty; she must have dropped her blaster.

 _< <Are you crazy?>>_ That’s Huttese, from somewhere behind the first one. A human steps forward, grabbing the Rodian’s gun hand and pushing it down. _< <Look at her, anthead. That’s two thousand credits worth at auction, just lying right there on the deck. Don’t be stupid.>>_

It’s the last thing Hera hears before she blacks out.

***

“Hera.” Her name spoken in a low tone, insistently. “Hera, wake up.”

She blinks. Her head is pounding, her mouth is dry, she’s lying on a cold metal deck—not the Ghost’s, she knows that immediately. The rivet patterns are wrong.

She tries to push herself up and discovers that her hands are bound before her. Also Kanan’s right next to her. He’s in binders too but he’s trying to help her sit up. She manages it, getting a glimpse of what looks like a medbay that’s been modified to fit a number of detention cages, before a wave of nausea makes her close her eyes again. She sinks her head between her knees and struggles for equilibrium. Kanan’s hands are still on her shoulder, offering support.

Once the wave of sickness passes, she looks up again. There are three cages in the room, their walls defined by translucent, shimmering orange barriers. She and Kanan are in one, and the other two are empty. Her blaster’s gone. She pats the pockets of her flight suit: yep, comlink’s gone too.

“Your arm,” Hera says suddenly, as her last memories of the fight come rushing back. She twists around to look at Kanan, and he pulls back. But as she sweeps her eyes over him she sees that—while he’s still bare-chested and barefoot and they’ve taken his blaster—they at least slapped a bacta patch on his wounded arm.

“I’m all right,” he says. His mouth twists. “They’re going to sell us. Damage knocks down the price.”

“You knew this would happen,” Hera says. There’s no accusation in her tone, but he looks pained.

“I knew they would try to capture you rather than kill you,” he says carefully. “ _Letting_ that happen was never the plan.”

“Hmm,” Hera muses. “Our position is better now, actually. Even if somehow we’d defeated the whole boarding party, we couldn’t have escaped their tractor beam. And the other ships could’ve blasted us out of the sky at any time. Now we have the chance to surprise them.”

“Glad you’re looking on the bright side,” Kanan says, darkly. He reaches out to touch two of his fingers against the binders around her wrists, and she’s surprised by the sudden passion in his voice as he tells her: “I hate this. Want me to see if I can get them off?”

But Hera’s thoughts are racing. “Not yet,” she says. “We have to rescue Elsewise.”

Kanan snorts and makes a small motion with his bound hands, encompassing the room, the cage, Hera herself. “You’re worried about the _bantha_?”

Hera ignores that. “The only way to get her out of the cargo bay is through the main entry,” she says slowly. “Which means…”

Kanan sighs. But he joins her train of thought. “They have to do it planetside,” he agrees. “They can’t transfer her in space.”

“So when the ship lands, we break out,” Hera concludes. “I’ll disable the tractor beam, you rescue Elsewise, we’ll meet back at the _Ghost_ and make our escape.”

“Oh, that simple?” Kanan says drily. “Look, I might be able to get the binders open, but there’s nothing I can do about this cage.”

“I can get them to open the cage,” Hera says with confidence. “We just have to wait.”

Kanan’s eyebrow climbs, but he doesn’t question her. Instead he says: “Wish we had a dejarik board.”

“The accommodations could definitely be improved.” Hera manages a small smile, then leans forward to pat his bare foot. “We’ll get out of this, Kanan. And I _will_ get my ship back.”

She’s projecting much more confidence than she actually feels, and as he studies her for a moment, she wonders if he can tell. Then the corners of his eyes crinkle. “Accommodations are the worst,” he says. “But the company is good.”

They ending up passing the time by swapping silly jokes and old spacers’ tales, until Hera notices Kanan’s teeth chattering as he tries to tell her “the one about the Senator and the nexu.”

“You’re cold,” she says, and immediately feels stupid. Of course he’s cold, he’s hardly wearing anything. “Come here.”

“Why Captain, I thought you’d never ask,” Kanan drawls, although whatever pose he’s going for (is he under the impression that he’s being _suave_?) is spoiled by the effect of his teeth rattling together. Hera rolls her eyes.

“Come here and don’t be a ronto’s ass about it.”

He leans against her. “Sorry,” he says quietly.

“It’s all right.” She pulls him closer, although with their hands bound, the positioning is awkward. After a fair amount of shifting around he ends up with his torso in her lap and her arms draped over him.

She doesn’t mind it. She cares about Kanan, and it’s not as if she’s entirely oblivious to the fact that he’s extremely good looking. Hera just isn’t the type to dwell on things like that—to get flustered by the broad sweep of his shoulder, or distracted by the hard muscles of his chest under her arms. What would his hair would feel like between her fingers?

 _Like a mistake you can’t afford_ , she tells herself firmly. Her priorities must stay clear. The Empire may not know it, but Hera has already declared war. There is no room for romance on the front lines.

Kanan’s shivering gradually eases. She thinks he might have fallen asleep, because he’s so quiet and so still, but when she glances down at his face she sees a glimmer of turquoise beneath the dark sweep of his lashes. His face is angled away from her: she can’t tell what he’s looking at.

She’s wondering if he’s thinking about how they got here. Blaming himself, as he so often does? The responsibility for their predicament lies squarely with Hera, and she’ll learn from this. She’s just not sure how to say that in a way that he’ll truly hear.

“I should have swept for trackers before we left,” Hera sighs at last. “The clients warned me about the threat and I didn’t take it seriously.”

When he answers, Kanan’s voice is a little deeper and slower. Not tense: maybe he wasn’t dwelling on self-recriminations, after all. On the contrary, he sounds…relaxed. “The client’s a bantha,” he points out. “That’s hard to take seriously.”

“But you were injured because I was careless. I won’t make that mistake again.”

He blinks, but doesn’t answer for several heartbeats. At last he says: “I’ll get better.” And she thinks he’s talking about the blaster wound, until he goes on: “None of these sleemos should’ve ever laid a finger on you. Not if I was…what I should be. You need better, so. I’ll get better.”

She’s taken aback. By the words, and by the raw conviction in his voice. It doesn’t sound like guilt, it sounds like _truth_. It ignites a hot, uncomfortable feeling in her stomach, and she doesn’t know how to answer. So she says nothing, and they remain together in silence until the deck beneath them lurches, and lurches again.

Kanan pushes himself back upright. “Turbulence,” he says.

“We’ve entered atmosphere,” Hera agrees.

A few minutes later there’s a hard jolt, sudden and intense enough to send Hera careening against Kanan. “Whoa!” he says, but manages not to lose his balance. And then, as she’s recovering: “Your landings are a lot smoother.”

She gives him a small smile for that. Then she takes a deep breath. “Okay. Show time.” She scoots herself back, away from him—out of courtesy, because the next thing she does is start screaming at the top of her lungs.

It takes a while. Kanan goes from wincing to looking impressed despite himself. At last the medbay hatch opens: it’s one of the Rodian pirates, and he’s holding a rather large blaster rifle. “ _Schuuta!_ ,” he orders, and lifts it menacingly.

Hera does stop yelling, but only to draw herself up to her feet with as much haughty, regal grace as she can manage. She tosses her lekku and says imperiously: “Elsewise Sky’s-the-Limit. Have you milked her?”

“Bantha not little tailhead’s problem,” the Rodian says in heavily accented Basic, punctuating his speech with another wave of the blaster rifle. “Tailhead’s problem is Meelax shoot her if she not shut up.”

“Don’t be absurd,” Hera says, making sure that her voice drips with condescension. “I’m far too valuable to you, and _not_ as a slave. You nerf-brains have managed to capture two highly important hostages—Elsewise Sky’s-the-Limit, and myself—and you’re about to lose Elsewise if you don’t listen to me.”

The Rodian looks unimpressed. Hera rolls her eyes theatrically. “All right, but don’t say I didn’t warn you when the most important bantha in the galaxy drops dead of an impacted udder. Have. You. _Milked_. Her?”

At that, his antennae twich: a signal of nervousness. Hera stamps her foot and presses her advantage. “Meelax, get someone in here with the brains and authority to speak to me _now_. And tell them my name is Hera Syndulla, the only daughter of the Liberator of Ryloth, and he will trade guns, munitions, and even whole _ships_ to secure my safety.”

“Meelax not want to be little tailhead if she’s lying,” the Rodian threatens, but his antennae are still rolling. He takes a step back, and the hatch closes again.

Kanan steps up behind her. “Very creative,” he says. “Does Cham Syndulla even have children?”

“Just the one,” Hera bites out. “And he certainly wouldn’t trade a ship for me.”

Kanan’s eyes widen. “Wait, that was _true_?”

“Shh!” she hushes him. She can hear footsteps in the passageway outside. When the hatch opens again, Meelax is accompanied by the human she saw before. He’s wearing gaudy, mismatched clothing and a dangerously mild expression.

“You,” he says softly, as he walks forward with slow and even steps, “are either very lucky or very foolish, my dear.”

“I don’t think I’m either,” Hera says. She senses that she’d better scale back the spoiled-princess act with this one. “But I am telling the truth. My name is Hera Syndulla. I can give you the codes to contact Cham Syndulla of Ryloth about my ransom. And Elsewise Sky’s-the-Limit _will_ die unless she is milked.” Two statements that are accurate and one that is false; the key to making any lie believable is to wrap it in truth.

Kanan speaks up, then, behind her. “Has she gone listless?” he asks. “Does she stand stock-still gazing at nothing? Those are the first signs of distress in an impacted bantha.”

The pirate leader’s eyes slide to Kanan. He’s mammalian, and Meelax beside him is reptilian, but it’s the human who reminds Hera of a snake. “And you are?” he says mildly.

“Bantha shit shoveler,” Kanan answers, and although he’s standing behind her, Hera can vividly imagine his insolent grin.

 _Stars_ , Hera thinks. _His mouth will get us both killed._ “He’s Elsie’s handler,” she says quickly. “You should let him milk her. It will be good for her, and you’ll get a free batch of the galaxy’s sweetest blue milk. And meanwhile, you and I and my father can talk about what it will take to secure my release.”

The human nods at Meelax. “Disengage the force fields,” he says.

Meelax steps to a control panel and toggles a few switches. The shimmering orange walls that surround them disappear. The instant they do, Kanan shoulders in front of Hera.

Meelax fumbles to raise his blaster rifle, but Kanan blurs into motion, crossing the room before Meelax can aim his weapon. Even with his hands bound before him, Kanan has no apparent difficulty twisting the rifle out of Meelax’s hands. He smashes its stock into Meelax’s chin, and the Rodian’s head snaps backward with an audible crack. His body falls limply over the control panel.

Hera shouts a warning: “Kanan!” The other pirate has produced a holdout blaster from under his tattered coat. Kanan drops Meelax’s rifle and holds up his hands. An instant later the holdout blaster flies out of the man’s grasp, winging across the room to land solidly in Kanan’s palm. Kanan flips it in his hand and fires, and the pirate leader goes down with a scorched hole between his eyes.

Kanan turns and calmly walks back to Hera. “Cham Syndulla’s daughter,” he says. “Seriously?” He follows that up with a wave of the holdout blaster, gesturing toward her hands.

So she holds out her arms, and he shoots the binders at their point of joining. The mechanism shorts out: they open and fall to the floor, sparking. “We don’t talk,” Hera says, and offers her palm.

Kanan lays the blaster in her hand, and she shoots his binders off just as he did for her. He rubs his wrists absently. “Cham Syndulla fought with Mace Windu,” he says. “My—” He breaks off suddenly, then continues, a little more softly. “My master’s master.”

So he _was_ a Jedi: not just an untrained Force-sensitive, and not just a youngling as she’d once thought. He’d had a master. Probably a lightsaber, maybe even troops under his command. Hera’s struck by the sudden awareness of how much he must have lost. “I’ve heard stories of Mace Windu,” she says gently. “I’ll tell you some time.” Then she recharges the blaster. “Right now? You have a damsel to rescue.”

“The fair Elsewise. You’re disabling the tractor beam?”

“Yeah. Let’s go while surprise is on our side.”

Kanan scoops up Meelax’s blaster rifle on their way out of the medbay. As soon as they’re in the passageways Hera recognizes the layout of the ship. It’s an old Republic tugboat, held together with what looks like a series of crude patch-jobs. Tractor beam’s probably the only thing it’s good for: but it’s blasted good at that. “Gangway’s that way,” she says, nodding her head. “Cockpit is this way. Meet you outside.”

Kanan hesitates only a moment. “You don’t need back up?”

“What I need is an escape route,” she says, and he nods tightly and goes.

Hera sidles down the passageway, back to the bulkhead and blaster in her hand. These tugboats are pretty cramped; they can’t keep a large crew. The medbay was actually the largest compartment by far, due to the tugboat’s primary design as a rescue craft.

 She doesn’t expect a lot of opposition between here and—oh. She rounds a corner, sees a pirate, and shoots him. Then she ducks back into cover, because she expects the sound of the blast to draw others. Sure enough: the next time she risks a glance around the corner, there are two. She shoots both before they can draw a bead on her.

Killing’s always upsetting, but Hera faced up to the necessity of it a long time ago. She doesn’t have the time—or frankly, the inclination—to sit every piece of slaver scum down and argue them out of their evil ways. She can save a lot more lives by shooting them in the head and moving on. So that’s what she does.

She worries, for a second, that they might’ve been smart enough to seal the cockpit behind them. But no: when she punches open a hatch, there’s just one Rodian pilot, and he’s barely started to turn in his seat before she squeezes off her shot.

That’s…four she took on her own. Two that Kanan eliminated. There were more than that in the boarding party they faced, and that’s not even beginning to reckon with the crews that stayed behind. Hera has a stab of fear for the numbers that Kanan might be facing outside.

She’s got to work quickly. She seals the hatch behind her, then pulls the pilot’s body aside ( _slaver scum,_ _no time for regrets, this is war_ ) and slides into his chair. This console is ancient, practically held together with multifilament splices and spit. If she wasn’t spending so much of her attention and focus resolutely ignoring the cooling body on the deck beside her, Hera would kind of love it.

She lets her fingers dance across the inputs. It’s half knowledge and half intuition. If the main flight systems are already in idle power mode and the indicators are _there_ , then _these_ must be the rerouting pathways, and since it’s an old tugboat surely the tractor beam controls must be in a pretty prominent location… Ah. _There_. Bit by bit, she coaxes the old ship into life under her hands.

And bit by bit, she murders it. She feels worse about this than about those three lives she just ended in the passageways, and even the body that’s right on the deck beside her. (Although that one is troubling, and it keeps taking all her willpower to yank her focus back to her work.) But the ship…the ship trusts her. It obeys her, even as she’s rerouting the engine exhausts into the tractor beam subsystems, and simultaneously setting the shields to overload.

She pauses when she finds the com system. Then punches in the codes to hail Chopper’s individual com freqency. It’s a gamble—if Chopper’s gone unnoticed all this time, _and_ if someone overhears her transmission, she could be betraying him.

On the other hand: it’s Chopper. Hera’s willing to place her bets.

“Chopper?” she hisses. “Can you hear me?”

There’s static. Then a crackle of angry squawks. _CaptainHeraSyndulla == criminally negligent. CaptainHeraSyndulla == guilty of actions leading to harm of commanding officer CaptainHeraSyndulla._

“I’m okay, Chop,” she assures him. “Where are you? What’s your status?”

_C1-10P == hidden in VCX-100Ghost nose turret. Recommended censure for CaptainHeraSyndulla == stripped of command._

“Sure,” she says. “You can be in charge. Can you take control of the _Ghost_ from there, Chopper?”

The static makes his return message a little hard to parse, but she’s pretty sure she gets the gist. _CaptainHeraSyndulla == missing pertinent data in >75 percent of sample conversation trees. C1-10P == uninterested in assuming command of sub-functional organics._

Stars, he’s really mad. Hera touches two fingers to her forehead. “Chopper? There’s no time for this. Can you ready the _Ghost_ for takeoff, or not?”

_Recommended replacement for CaptainHeraSyndulla == CaptainHeraSyndulla subclass ABetterVersion._

“Okay,” Hera sighs. “I take it there’s no one else in the cockpit? If Kanan and I show up, can you open the gangway and get us off the ground?”

_CaptainHeraSyndulla subclass ABetterVersion == would derive no new information from the return of such query. Query == true._

“You’re the best,” Hera says, and cuts the transmission. Then she goes back to sabotaging the ship.

It was a good ship, once. It must have saved many lives, back when its only use was towing stranded and disabled crafts back to port. Just like the Jedi, it’s a singular craft made for a noble purpose. And just like the Jedi, it was betrayed. There can’t be many of these old tugboats left. And even in disrepair, this ship is a fine piece of work, in its own way.

Hera pauses over the final keystrokes that would cause a total engine meltdown. Her breath huffs out of her throat. She can’t: she can’t. Instead, she diverts most of the overload into the gravitational buffers. Without acceleration dampeners, the ship won’t fly; but it also won’t explode. Someone, someday—with a lot of work and a lot of care—might be able to reverse the damage.

She slides out of the pilot’s chair. In doing so, she has to step over the body of the Rodian pilot she shot to get in it. Almost despite herself, she leans down to check his pulse. She’s cursing herself for wasting the time, and sure that he must be dead: but she’s shocked at the depth of her own relief when she finds a thready heartbeat.

She’s prepared to kill. When she _has_ to. She takes a moment to turn his face to the side and prop up his head as best she can, using his own clothing. Keep the airways clear—that’s the best she can do.

 _Slaver scum_. If she saves this man, is she dooming others? She can’t know. She leaves him with the best chance she can.

And she doesn’t look back.

The passageways she came through are just as she left them, bodies and all. She does check them, but these ones really are dead. They wanted to sell her. They _would_ have killed her. She made this choice and she’ll keep making it as many times as it takes. She tells herself all those things, with every cold and unmoving body she touches.

 As she gets closer to the exit, she hears shouting. Blaster fire—she starts running, then. Pelting for the gangway, heedless of who or what she might stumble upon. She pushes her way outside and blinks in the sudden sunlight.

Whatever world they’ve landed on, it’s a shithole. Arid, dusty craters as far as the eye can see. The only point of interest would be the disorganized knot of alarmed pirates—about a dozen brightly-colored, blaster-waving sentients, mostly Rodians—and the half-naked, bantha-riding human bearing down on them.

Elsewise Sky’s-the-Limit has built up quite a lot of momentum, her heavy hooves thudding forward in a rapid, ground-shaking gallop. Her long, shaggy fur streams in the air behind her. Her coat is thick as armor: the pirates’ blaster bolts sizzle uselessly against her sides. Kanan, clinging to her back, shouts: “That’s right, Elsie! You’re a war bantha now!”

Hera picks a target and fires. Switches her aim, and fires again. Then she winces, because Elsewise has crashed into the front lines of the pirate group, and the Rodians are scattered and trampled in her charge.

Kanan looks over, and gives Elsie some kind of invisible signal: the bantha doesn’t slow, but she veers in her headlong run. As they close in, Kanan leans down. One of his hands is wrapped in the fur of the bantha’s neck. The other is extended to Hera, and as Elsewise thuds by Hera leaps up to grasp his forearm with all her strength. She catches him with her left hand—because the right is still holding her blaster—and there’s a moment when she swings dangerously, rocked with every one of the bantha’s hoofbeats.

And then Kanan hoists her up, boosting her the last couple meters so that she ends up tucked in front of him.

His right hand is still holding a handful of fur on Elsie’s neck, and his left is steadying Hera’s hip. She’s more or less facing backwards, sitting with both legs to the bantha’s side. She leans out past him so that she can fire on the pirates who are beginning to pick themselves up. She misses—misses again—and hits.

“Heeeerrraaaa!” Kanan cries, so she looks over her shoulder to find out what he’s seeing.

It’s the _Ghost_ , perched only a few dozen meters away.  Which is good—but the gangway’s not down. “Keep running!” Hera shouts. “Chopper will open it!”

“You heard ‘er, Elsie!”

The bantha doesn’t break stride. Hera fires another couple of wild shots at the surviving pirates. It’s enough to keep them from coordinating their fire.

Then, the bantha is thudding forward—Hera closes her eyes, because either the _Ghost_ will open, or not. And there’s nothing she can do now to change the outcome.

The angle and timbre of Elsie’s hoofbeats change. It’s no longer the sound of arid, hard-packed earth, but instead a metallic drumbeat. And they’re rising. Chopper did it, he lowered the ramp.

When Hera opens her eyes, she’s home.

***

“We are authorized to pay you the full delivery fee for Elsewise Sky’s-the-Limit,” the ag specialist says carefully. “We do, however, have some—ah—questions.”

“Happy to answer any questions,” Hera says cordially. Tanaab is an awfully nice world. Green plains as far as the eye can see. Pale purple skies, and turquoise clouds. There are so many animals here, and they all seem…happy.

The ag specialist, in her white coat and prim hairdo, shifts from foot to foot. “Well, it’s just that—” she says, and then sighs and starts again. “You must understand, we’re not questioning the bantha’s identity. Genetic scans confirm this _is_ Elsewise Sky’s-the-Limit. And her milk has the expected unique properties.”

“…But?” Hera prompts.

The ag specialist fiddles with her datapad. “But. We were told Elsewise had a _gentle_ disposition.”

Kanan coughs. Hera says smoothly: “Elsie’s horizons have been broadened. She’s testing the limits of her new domain. She might need…a little extra exercise for a while.”

“Maybe combat exercise,” Kanan volunteers. “I, uh. I get the feeling she might enjoy that.”

The ag specialist makes a hasty note in her datapad. “I see. Exercise. Thank you. We’ll—we’ll experiment with a few options.”

“Please,” Hera says. “Feel free to contact us with any questions.”

“We will,” the woman nods. “And thank you again. The credits should already be in your account.” Hera shakes her hand.

A few minutes later, they’re walking back to the ship. Minus one bantha. “You know,” Hera says, “I really do think you deserve a bonus for that one.”

Kanan cocks an eyebrow at her. His arm is healing up nicely: she can’t see any stiffness in the way he carries himself. “Oh?”

“Absolutely,” she says cheerfully. “Let’s go somewhere, and I’ll buy you a nice, tall, cold—”

“Don’t,” Kanan protests, but half-heartedly.

“—ghionate-rich—”

“No.”

“Glass of blue milk.”


End file.
